


The Once and Future King

by brucebannerisms



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Depression, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:22:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucebannerisms/pseuds/brucebannerisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aaron deals with a season rife with injury.</p><p>It is important that I underline the fact that I have no knowledge of Aaron Ramsey's mental health. This story is purely fictional and based only on my own experiences with depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Once and Future King

On mornings when Aaron didn't have to go to the training grounds for physiotherapy, he rose long after the sun and, without dressing, he'd lose immeasurable time at his kitchen table. To his wife it was only an hour or two in which she'd leave him alone and run errands or she'd putter about the house silently, sometimes pressing soft kisses and touches to his shoulder, cheek, the top of his head. Kisses he wouldn't feel until hours later, when he would touch the spot with a vague recollection of affection being imparted upon him when he was not there to witness.

But to Aaron it felt like ages. His blank stare would focus on the same knot in the ancient wood of their kitchen table, a cup of coffee would grow cold beside him and dashes of the morning would slowly mark their way down the table until the afternoon came, the square of warmth no longer able to stretch it's influence to the dark of the polished wood.

When he remembered the small touches, gifts from his wife, he'd remember how blessed he is that he married a woman who knows him to the marrow of his bones. She always knew exactly what he needed and never forced him out of his own head when he was stranded there. His pain was her pain and vice versa.

Although, if he could think about it straight on instead of in the back of his mind as he does, he might have to concede that if they both spawned the pain that rooted itself like a slow acting venom in his veins they might not have lasted a week.

And he'd thank her for her kindness with soft touches of his own. On good days, his mouth would find the tenderest places and the kisses he'd leave there would stay with her through all of the bad days. Sometimes his love for her felt bigger than the sadness and he was so thankful for that. But sometimes he cried for it as well. More often these days he felt racked with guilt for violating one of their marriage vows; love could not always conquer this. [It's worth noting that Colleen specifically left this part out of their small ceremony, but the idea of it, and purposeful omission, still struck Aaron as a failure of its own accord.]

He usually had 3 types of days.

Type one: Aaron wakes up in the morning and doesn't feel a heaviness in his chest. A hot shower cleanses his skin and his mind, he'd feel the warmth through his whole body and it would remind him that some things are worth feeling. Loving his wife would assure him that it would be a good day. On days like this he tried to take small steps that would make the bad days better. He'd write down the good thoughts in a small leatherbound that he has not once leafed through on a bad day yet, but maybe soon he can start. On good days when he has therapy he prattles on to everyone who is helping him so they know that he is thankful for their service. He hopes they will remember this through his bouts with silence. What he doesn't know is that Colleen calls to thank them every single day, just in case Aaron can't. She brings them small tokens of gratitude at the end of each week, and they give her updates on Aaron's health that he sometimes can't give himself. Despite days like this being the best he could hope for lately, he still spends them ensconced in fear. A shadow lurking just out of view, a promise that the darkness is waiting for him, never too far away.

Type two: Aaron exists. He wakes up in the morning, and though not seemingly impossible, he struggles a little to pull himself out of bed. The day feels onerous but not insurmountable. He takes a shower that burns his skin to remind him that he is alive. He kisses his wife but in a perfunctory way. If they are more intimate, sometimes it is sloppy and sometimes he cries. She never says a word about it either way. If he has therapy he says nary a word to anyone, a smile is coaxed out of him only in the most extreme circumstance. Seeing his teammates almost turns a day like this into type 3.

Type three: It is good fortune not to have therapy on days of this type, which are becoming more and more frequent as his time out of play stretches on. It is these mornings when he doesn't shower, doesn't dress, and his coffee and the darkwood table are the only things present to him. He could draw the knot in the wood that his eyes have befriended without their help. On a sort of good type three day sometimes he will remember his coffee when it is still lukewarm. Most of the time, the noon sun no longer bathes the table when he forces down cold coffee, sickly sweet but bitter in the back of his throat.

On a type three day he was startled by a knock at the door, mostly surprised that he had even heard it.

Colleen, he also was surprised he knew, had left the house to run some errands. He places his left hand over the spot where she had leaned over his shoulder to stroke his cheek and murmur into his hair that she would be out for a few hours. It was this spot on his cheek that he was still touching, the memory of her finger across his skin, when he pulled open the door.

He hadn't even thought to dress, and if he were in any better state he might have been embarrassed for it, because Thierry Henry was on the other side. As it was, he didn't even have the presence of mind to wonder why he was there.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Thierry might have described Aaron as looking bored.

"Can I come in?"

Without a word Aaron stepped aside and Thierry kicked off his boots as he followed Aaron into the kitchen. Being dragged back to the present was jarring and harsh. Aaron pulled his robe tighter around him and without asking he poured Thierry a cup of coffee and placed it on the table next to him without milk or sweetener. Thierry nodded in acceptance, but did not take the cup in hand.

Aaron sat back down at his seat and his eyes found the knot in the wood. He glanced at Henry once but he too was not concentrating on the present. His eyes had found the block of sun over the kitchen sink and although a thin smile played at the corner of his lips, something in the fix of his gaze said do not disturb.

That was fine by Aaron. He set himself down in his usual spot and he frowned at the light warming his kitchen sink and wondered what it held for Thierry. He imagined this moment was frozen, the clock stilled and everything was held in place. He'd like that. Holding everything here within the chasm of nothing is alright and everything is fine.

But the clock kept ticking and Aaron's wandering eyes found the knot in the wood once again. The only noise was every once in a while when Titi would lift the cup of coffee to his lips, still warm and dark and heavy.

When Thierry moved, there was a moment within a moment where Aaron felt just a little less alone in his own head.


End file.
